


The Star Pupil

by themusicofmysoul



Category: Critical Role (Web Series), Dungeons & Dragons - All Media Types
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-05
Updated: 2018-07-05
Packaged: 2019-06-05 23:29:50
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,249
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15181709
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/themusicofmysoul/pseuds/themusicofmysoul
Summary: The Storyteller, god and patron of the written and spoken word.  Archivists and librarians give thanks to him for the countless stories that fill their shelves.  Writers praise his guiding hand as they break through a dry spell in their work.And bards, like Alexander, dedicate their lives in service to him, their one true source of power and inspiration.





	The Star Pupil

**Author's Note:**

  * For [hundredsofsmallbirds](https://archiveofourown.org/users/hundredsofsmallbirds/gifts).
  * Inspired by [Once Upon a Dream](https://archiveofourown.org/works/11553600) by [themusicofmysoul](https://archiveofourown.org/users/themusicofmysoul/pseuds/themusicofmysoul). 



> This little fic takes place in the same universe as my fic Once Upon a Dream, written as a little present for my dear friend hundredsofsmallbirds. He wanted a fic of his OC Alexander and the Dungeon Master, so I had to comply.
> 
> And besides, for anyone waiting for another chapter of that nightmare fic, hopefully this will serve as an apology for taking so long with another chapter. I know, I know. I am very sorry. I will try to be a better writer.

A gentle breeze swept through the small forest clearing, stirring the leaves on the tall branches into a soft chorus of whimsical sighs and longing groans.  The moon was hardly present, only the barest sliver of her pale face visible amongst the dazzling tapestry of stars shining in the vast expanse of black sky.  The only true light came from the glow of a lonely campfire on the edge of the clearing, the faint crackling and popping from the wood within its flames adding another layer to the harmony the forest saw fit to play for its lone occupant.  

Alexander sighed, leaning his head back against the trunk of a tree, closing his eyes as he let the sounds wash over him, allowed the forest’s melody to seep into his heart and warm his blood, soothing his aching muscles and weary mind.  Most people assumed that a bard’s talent lay in their words, in how they could weave an epic tale of legendary heroes, enthrall a crowd with their vivid descriptions of far off lands, frighten a child with the booming voice of a villain’s harrowing plans for the world should they succeed—but, in reality, a bard’s true talent lay in how they listened.  Whether it be following rumor after rumor of a bloody battle to its source, or sitting calmly by the warmth of a fire listening to the chittering of night-dwelling creatures, the ears were where a bard’s true worth lay.

And any bard worth their salt knew that music could be found anywhere, not just in a concert hall or by a tavern hearth.

The night air was cool and crisp, a sign that summer would soon give way to fall, bringing with it a whole new musical selection.  The leaves would grow dry and brittle, rattling in the breeze like a pair of castanets before they fell to the earth, crunching beneath the feet of every traveler that wandered these woods.  It was always the time between seasons that provided the most wonderful harmonies, bright green leaves brushing against the reddish brown of those who had succumb faster than their brethren, the gentle scraping sound it produced akin to a whetstone against a dull blade.

For whatever reason, it was always during this period that the Storyteller’s inspiration fell upon Alexander.  Every follower of the Storyteller had a time of year in which they thrived.  Most of Alexander’s fellows back in his village found their inspiration in spring, in the budding flowers and chirping birds, while others found it in the bare branches of winter, the howling wind and the pristine white of freshly fallen snow.  No one could ever quite understand how he could feel the Storyteller’s guiding hand in a time of paradox, where the seasons overlapped and battled to keep their tenuous grasp on the world, where prosperity met famine, where life met death.

But, then again, none of them had heard the call to venture out into the world in search of legends not yet uncovered, none of them had felt that pull toward adventure and peril.  And what was that time between seasons but nature’s ruthlessness come to call?  Entire forests were slowly stripped of life, animals and people alike forced into a battle of survival, hoping that they had stored up enough food to sustain themselves until nature saw fit to breathe life back into the land.

It was the never ending Epic that every bard longed to find, an eternal war between life and death, one felt most acutely when a ceasefire was reached and tension sat heavily in the air.  Sometimes, the preceding season fought back; sometimes winter’s claws dug in with a final blizzard that coated the earth with an impenetrable sheet of glistening snow, killing off whatever may have begun to bud and sprout, while sometimes summer lashed out with a sudden spike in temperature, drying up riverbeds and spreading disease as meat rotted and insects swarmed.  But there were other times that the seasons went quietly into the night, vanishing with the rising sun as the following season took its place with hardly a struggle.

A grin split Alexander’s features, his fingers tapping out a simple rhythm on his thigh.  The Storyteller had granted him the most generous gift out of all of his followers, a well of inspiration that would never run dry, not so long as the Earth turned and the seasons changed.  Already the beginnings of a simple melody formed in his mind, a tune to put his most recent adventures to for all to hear.  He continued to tap out the beat, humming softly as the fire crackled and snapped, providing a whole new percussion line to the one already taking shape at his fingertips.

His eyes drifted closed as he continued to hum, his fingers itching to reach for the lyre that sat beside his satchel.  But it wasn’t time for that yet.  A song was a delicate thing when first being created.  Moving too fast could make it shatter in your hands, and the repairs would never be truly perfect.  The cracks would be visible to any who listened, the notes bland and lackluster where they should have been lively and vibrant.  And where the music faltered, the story suffered with it.

If there was one thing the Storyteller’s disciples prided themselves on, it was that no tale offered up to their patron was ever anything less than a masterpiece.

“I see you are hard at work.”

Alexander sat up with a gasp, his eyes snapping open as he instinctively reached for the dagger sheathed at his side.  He was not proficient with the weapon by any means, but it was better than having no weapon at all.

“Who’s there?”  Alexander called, doing his best to keep his voice steady and even as his eyes swept the clearing.  “Show yourself!”

“Fear not, my favored devotee,” the voice responded, a low, foreboding baritone that seemed directionless, formless.  And yet familiar in the strangest way.  An itch at the back of his mind he could not reach.  “I merely heard the beginnings of your latest offering, and was so moved I could hardly contain myself.”

Alexander’s eyes widened a fraction, his grip on the dagger tightening ever so slightly.  No.  No, it couldn’t be.  “I will not ask again.  Don’t hide in the shadows like the coward you are.”

“My, my,” the voice chastised, a single, cloaked form stepping out from the shadows of a thick cluster of trees to the bard’s right.  “I never thought you to be one to make such demands of your patron, dearest Alexander.  I think ‘coward’ is a bit callous, too, don’t you think?”

The dagger fell from Alexander’s hand with a muted clatter upon the hard packed dirt, his mouth agape in disbelief.  “This isn’t—! You can’t be… I’m not… But you—!”

A cool smile formed on the stranger’s face, his eyes shrouded in the impenetrable shadow of his hood.  “At a loss for words?  How very strange for an accomplished follower of the Storyteller.  And here I assumed my acolytes were held to a higher standard than your average bard.”

“We are!” Alexander said, his voice a panicked, strangled yell that echoed through the dense forest, disturbing the frail chorus of the wind through the branches.  Heat bloomed across his cheeks as he cleared his throat self-consciously, his tone that of a penitent man at prayer.  “I mean, we are, most Holy and Generous one!  You just… caught me by surprise.  I never expected… never even dreamed—!”

The stranger—the  _Storyteller_ , Alexander reminded himself—waved off the stream of words pouring from the elf’s lips, that cool smile curling into a pleased grin.  “You always were so eager to please, darling Alexander.  Almost to a fault, some might say.  But look at how it has rewarded you.”  The Storyteller closed the distance between them, his steps slow and deliberate, his fine, violet cloak trailing slightly behind him in the cool, night breeze.  “Called upon to travel the world in search of epic tales yet untold, blessed to feel the guiding hand of your patron in your every note and lyric, and now—” he spread his hands as he came to a stop a mere few feet from where Alexander still sat upon the ground, “—it has culminated in this.  Truly your faith has rewarded you.”

Alexander gazed up at the Storyteller, at his  _god_ , and struggled to make sense of it all.  He was no one, just another bard his small village had raised and tuned with a careful ear.  There were dozens upon dozens of people like him in his village, some who worked far harder to gain the favor of their patron than he ever did, and yet the Storyteller chose to appear before him, in the flesh.  A part of him didn’t believe it, screamed that this had to be a trick, a ploy by a group of bandits to make him lower his guard.  It was the obvious explanation, the only logical reason behind such an undeserved miracle.

But there was another part of him, the one that continued to compose bar after bar of melodies and harmonies, that itched to grab for his lyre and find the proper notes to convey the swarm of emotions overwhelming his weary mind, that knew this was real.  The man before him was dressed in the lavish colors of royalty, deep shades of violet with golden embroidery lining that fine cloak.  He looked human, almost frighteningly so, but even at this proximity, Alexander could feel the power that radiated from him, how the air seemed to shift around him, as if reality itself would bend to his every whim should he will it.

It was unlike anything Alexander had ever felt, and yet so similar to how he felt when composing his latest ballad, the power that coursed through him as he put the finishing touches on a piece.  He had always hoped that sensation had been the Storyteller’s approval descending upon him, granting him just the barest glimpse of a god’s power, but to have that feeling validated?  There wasn’t a single word, even throughout his years of travel and bardic training, to properly express the surge of emotions overtaking him.

“But why?”  Alexander squeaked, his eyes welling with unshed tears, his hands shaking as he leaned forward, nearly prostrate before his god, before the personification of his very reason for breathing.  “What have I done that my fellows have not?  I have only ever done what was asked of me, just as they did.”

The Storyteller tilted his head, his hood swaying ever so slightly with the movement, as he took another step forward, the soles of his boots silent even on the dry, browning grass.  Alexander quickly lowered his eyes to stare at the ground, overcome with the sudden fear that he had said something wrong.  Why would he even dare to question the wisdom of his patron?  What if he had offended the Storyteller with such blasphemous talk?

Alexander was unsure what he expected to happen next.  Perhaps he thought the song that constantly flowed through his veins would vanish, leaving his head silent and empty.  Maybe he expected to be cursed as a mute, doomed to have countless songs surge from his fingertips, but his tongue forever stilled.  An endless stream of possible punishments for his irreverence rushed through his mind, a fear like he had never felt before taking root in his heart as he lay before the Storyteller, those unshed tears of awe and wonder quickly falling as terror took hold.

Whatever punishment fell upon him, he would accept it with grace and humility, as any devoted follower would.  He would endure it for the rest of his days and pray for forgiveness—

The soft, gentle touch of well-worn leather came up and under Alexander’s chin, tilting his face upward until he was face to face with the kneeling form of the Storyteller.  His hood was still up and obscured all but his sharp, clean shaven jaw and elegant nose, even in the light of the slowly dying fire—but this close to him, Alexander would swear to all he met for the rest of his days that he caught the faintest glimmer of a pair of eyes so blue they would rival the highest mountain peaks in the dead of winter.

The Storyteller’s thin lips curved upward in a gentle, half-smile, the warmth of his gloved hand upon Alexander’s chin proof of his presence here in this insignificant forest clearing.  “Because, my beloved bard, you have pleased me.  Should that not be reason enough?”

A warmth like that of a newly formed star blossomed in Alexander’s chest, the tears that fell from his eyes no longer from a source of terror, but of pure, unadulterated bliss.  “O-Of course, your Holiness!  I meant no disrespect!  My heart, my mind, my very soul is yours to do with as you wish, as all bards before me.”

The warmth in the god’s smile seemed to falter for but a moment.  In the time it took for a flame to flicker in the gentle breeze, the Storyteller’s lips seemed to take on more malevolent shape, the gentle curve sharpening to a fine point.  He leaned forward, pressing a warm, almost comforting kiss to Alexander’s brow.  “Oh, my dear Alexander, you still have much work to do.”


End file.
